Who's Going to Want You?(Maren's POV)

Severin said, mildly, "Scott."

Scott pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it across to me.

"This is the marriage registration application. Fill this out first—we have forty minutes."

The form was densely printed. I worked through it item by item. When I reached the line marked Occupation, my pen paused.

My occupation used to be repair worker.

Now... I glanced up at Severin.

He had his head turned, watching the street outside as the dusk deepened, the warm yellow light of the café tracing a cold, severe line along his profile.

He seemed not to hear a word of my exchange with Scott. Nor did he care.

I lowered my head and wrote in the occupation field: Home Care.

Scott's eyes swept over the completed form. The corner of his mouth twitched. In the end he said nothing.

When I finished, Severin stood. The black suit wrapped around the broad line of his shoulders. The instant he rose, it was as though he blotted out most of the dim light in the café.

He picked up the coat draped over the back of his chair, didn't look at me, and dropped a single sentence: "Let's go."

Scott pulled out my chair for me and lowered his voice. "Miss Maren, the sir's time is extremely valuable. For the steps that follow, please cooperate. Don't ask questions. Don't say more than necessary."

I nodded and followed Severin out of the café.

A black car waited outside. Scott hurried ahead to open the rear door; Severin bent and got in, his movements refined and remote.

I climbed into the back seat and pressed myself as close to the door as I could, leaving nearly a person's width between us.

The car was very quiet. Severin leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, fingers resting lightly on his knee, as though resting.

I stole a look at him. His lashes were long, casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. His nose was straight, his lips thin and pale.

That face was too beautiful to be real—and too cold to be real.

My heart was beating hard.

Three million dollars.

With that money, Mama Diane could have the best medication, the best room, the best doctors.

She wouldn't have to lie awake at night, hollowed out by pain. She wouldn't have to force a smile to comfort me.

I blinked hard, forcing the sting back down out of my eyes.

The car stopped in front of a gray building. Scott said it was the clerk's office; the appointment had already been made.

I followed them in, signed papers in a small conference room, and a man who looked like a judge recited a few perfunctory words while Scott signed as witness.

The whole thing took ten minutes, and then I was holding a sheet of paper stamped with an embossed seal.

Scott handed me a bank card. "There's thirty thousand dollars on this—the first installment, paid in advance. The rest will be deposited on schedule."

I clutched the card. Thirty thousand dollars. Mama Diane's guarantee of a safe life.

My throat tightened. I bowed deeply, so choked up I could barely speak.

Mama Diane was going to be all right.

When I straightened, Severin was already back in the car.

I didn't get in. I said I had something urgent and had to leave first—then turned and ran.

St. Jude's Hospital was far from there. I ran two blocks before I managed to flag down a taxi.

The driver took in my tangled hair and bloodless face, frowned, but in the end didn't throw me out.

"St. Jude's Hospital. Please hurry."

At the hospital, I practically burst into the lobby.

A long line stretched in front of Patient Accounts. I stood at the very end of it, my toes tapping the floor without stopping.

When it was finally my turn, I handed over the card, my voice shaking. "Room 82. Diane Foster. Please clear the previous balance and put down a prepayment as well."

The clerk behind the window took the card and swiped it. A few seconds later, she passed a receipt back out to me.

"It's cleared, and there's a prepayment on file. That'll cover you for a while."

I took the receipt and looked at the string of numbers on it, and my eyes went hot. "Thank you. Thank you."

I turned and ran for the ward, moving so fast I nearly collided with a nurse at the corner of the corridor.

I pushed open the door of Room 82. Mama Diane lay in the bed, drowsy and drifting.

At the sound of the door, she slowly opened her eyes. Her clouded gaze settled on me, and the corner of her mouth pulled up with effort.

"Maren... you're back."

I hurried to the bedside and caught up her hand.

Her bony hand was ice-cold, an IV catheter taped into the back of it, the blue-purple veins stark beneath her pale skin.

I held her hand tight, trying to pass the warmth of my palm into it.

"Mama, the bill's paid, the medication's been renewed. You just rest easy. The doctor says they're switching you to a new drug tomorrow—it'll work better."

Mama Diane froze for a moment. Slowly, a film of water rose in her clouded eyes.

"Where did the money come from... where did you get that much money..."

"I found a new job." I smiled. "The pay's very good, and my boss is a decent man. He advanced me part of my wages. Don't worry about the money. Just focus on getting better."

Mama Diane looked at me, wanting to say more, but she had no strength left.

Her body hurt too much. She didn't even have the strength to ask one more question.

I tucked her blanket in around her and filled the cup on the bedside table, setting it where she could reach it.

She fell asleep quickly.

I lowered my head and pressed my face into the back of Mama Diane's hand, and the tears finally came.

These five years, I'd repaired countless water pipes and hauled countless sacks of cement. I'd worked three jobs at once, slept less than five hours a night, and scraped and saved with everything I had.

But every time the money went into that hospital it was like a stone sinking into the sea—not even a splash to show for it.

Never once, until today, had I felt that Mama Diane was this close to staying alive.

Severin had given me the chance to keep her alive.

Never mind three years—ten, and I'd walk that road on my knees.

As long as Mama Diane got better, it was all worth it.

Then my phone buzzed.

I wiped the corner of my eye and pulled it out. It was a message from Scott.

A string of characters: an address. [...This is the sir's residence. Move in before ten tomorrow morning. The sir doesn't like to be kept waiting.]

I replied: [Understood. I'll be there on time.]

I'd just set the phone down when the screen lit up again.

It was Asher—no. It was Valentine.

He actually had the nerve to come looking for me?

I didn't want to see a single word he'd sent. Gritting my teeth in fury, I moved to delete the message.

By some slip of the fingers, I opened it instead—and one glance told me the screen was crammed with unread messages.

[Maren, have you finished making your scene?]

[So because I kept my identity from you, you're going to break up with me?]

[It's not what you saw between me and Clementine. I can explain. Where are you? Answer the phone.]

[Stop sulking with me. You know your own situation better than anyone. Threatening me with a breakup does you no good at all.]

[Don't push it, Maren. You think you'll find better than me out there? A repair worker dragging around a half-dead adoptive mother—who's going to want you?]

[When you see this, contact me immediately. Don't make me say it a second time.]